Promise Me Something
by takingbarcelona
Summary: Jack and Martha have known each other for years, always popping in and out of each others' lives. The friendship that follows is nothing short of extraordinary. A collection of one-shots and short-story arcs, running in tandem to the "More Important" timeline.
1. When You're Going Through Hell

**A/N: **I'm currently working on a Rose/10 fic, and it's quite lengthy and involved, and part of its loveliness is that there will be visits from former companions and friends. Jack and Martha will feature heavily, but before they can be introduced, I felt like I had to give them history. If you're reading More Important, this isn't necessary to continuing with it. This just came into my head and it couldn't stay there. To repeat, this is a Jack/Martha story exclusively. It will detail their history together at random intervals, simply as a more complete story to what will be happening in More Important.

**A/N 2: **This chapter (and its complete arc, maybe two more chapters) took place approximately six years before the first chapter of More Important.

**Disclaimer: **Neither the Doctor nor Torchwood belong to me in the least. This is a piece of total fiction for my own creative pleasure; I am not making any profit from this material.

* * *

Jack was up to his elbows in an alien autopsy, holding what might have been a liver in one hand (definitely the pancreas), what might have been a second liver in his other hand (actually the liver), and looking at what might have been a third (second, really) when his Bluetooth pinged shrilly in his ear.

Gwen stood just beside him, looking more than a little queasy at the viscous green blood. She understood his jerky actions before he could get the words out. She reached over and touched the button on the back of the earpiece, and Jack winked his thanks.

"Captain Jack Harkness."

Gwen rolled her eyes, her back to Jack, Captain Flirt in Charge. _The man couldn't even introduce himself decently, _she thought.

Jack inhaled sharply, less-than-gracefully tossing the organs he was examining onto a nearby stainless steel tray, struggling to pry his hands out of their elbow-length industrial-grade medical gloves. His voice was hushed, but not secretive – Gwen held herself back from eavesdropping because, if things were this bad, _Jack only whispered like this when it was bad_, she'd be on the bandwagon soon enough.

"Ten minutes, nightingale," Jack said as he fought with his flight coat. The giant doorway was rolling back and Jack was taking the stairs three at a time before Gwen had even put on her own gloves.

* * *

The black SUV sped through the city streets in darkness – Jack knew the backroads and narrow alleys of Cardiff that would keep the Torchwood vehicle undetected, for the most part. Being secretive didn't matter now, no; all Jack had to be now was fast.

* * *

Finally, down at the docks in the grungy warehouse district, Jack slowed his reckless hunt. The truck rolled silently down the streets, eyes peeled for the signs he'd been warned of. _Dark shed, one red traffic cone_, the decoy to catch those too curious for their own good. _Go past it, find the alley that's hiding; the warehouse with a battered industrial shipping door and a movie poster, out of place._ Jack knew he was in the right place, and rolled the truck up to the wired gate just behind the building. _Teams of guards, but they expect lots of traffic. Just look like you know what you're doing._

_ "I always know what I'm doing, sweetheart."_

_ "Just hurry, Jack."_

_ "Ten minutes, nightingale," _he'd whispered back.

Sometimes, Jack ran head-first into situations not knowing what at all what to expect or what might just fall victim to collateral damage. When it was just him, he didn't mind. When it was his team and this was their chosen option, he didn't like it, and so fought harder, maybe harder than necessary. But when someone he loved was on the line, Jack approached the fight like it would be in the last in his life, because it was in these moments that he knew exactly what he was fighting for. Somewhere, behind those doors, Martha Jones was being held and questioned; there was a mole in UNIT feeding information to hostile aliens, _somewhere, they think; they don't even know, Jack!_ and because she'd been known to communicate with the Doctor, Martha wasn't their target, but she was the either their strongest or their weakest link to finding them, and they were draining her of all the information she'd ever held. In her defence, _it's a democracy, after all_, she was allowed one character witness. And Martha knew that when you needed someone to talk their way out of a situation – and you didn't have the Doctor on hand – there was no better people-person than Captain Jack Harkness himself.

* * *

She was tired. God, was she tired. Martha had lost count, but the last time she'd checked she'd been in this room for 26 hours, and that felt like a lifetime ago. They would take her out, sometimes, to question her. Other times, voices would come over invisible speakers and the walls themselves became lights until she was blinded, curled into a ball on the floor, pressing her face into her thighs to block the light. Then, that would end, and there would be silence. Silence in the white.

And then the lights would go out. She'd be in total darkness, touching only the floor and in the kind of blackness that made you so, so scared. She'd remembered words the Doctor had said once. That people were mocked for being afraid of the dark, but how it was the most rational fear of them all. Because it wasn't the dark you were afraid of. No, it was all the monsters that suddenly, you couldn't see.

There was nothing in the room. She couldn't remember where the door was, and there were no light fixtures, the speakers couldn't be seen. It was like, in this room, you stopped existing. Martha supposed that maybe that was the point, to get you so disoriented that you just started talking, filling the room with something other than just your body. There was no point to the sound, Martha had discovered. There was never an echo, the sound never bounced back. She had no idea where she was, and so she did the only thing she thought she could do.

"I am your Chief of Medical Staff!" She roared in the middle of the barrage of questions. The voice stopped.

"Am I wrong?" She asked, tone defiant.

"No," was the response.

She was up on her feet. "Then grant me this," she said. Pacing the room, _I will not die lying down._ "As in all internal investigations, the subject is granted one character witness to be called as a defender, regardless of the subject's line of questioning." She was quoting from memory the code of conduct it had been suggested she _didn't need_ to read. What a mistake that had been.

Confrontation with the truth made the voice change tactic. "Who shall we call, Dr. Jones?"

"Captain Jack Harkness of Torchwood. Let me speak to him personally." There was no question – Martha was done with questions. This had gone on too long and she was the one making the demands now. _I will not die lying down._

Standing in the centre of the room, hands on her hips, Martha waited. There were hushed voices over the speakers – she hadn't been taken out this room since the third round of questioning. Somewhere behind the walls she heard numbers exchanged and mumbles not intended for her ears. Then, suddenly, ringing.

"Captain Jack Harkness."

The relief that flooded through Martha made her bones weak. "Jack."

There was a sharp inhale on the other end. "Martha, sweetie, is that you?" She was nodding, not making a sound, and in the silence she heard a clatter in the background.

"Yeah," she whispered. "'is me."

"What's wrong?" His voice was hard, but not at her. This was Jack, a knight in shining armour for those he loved. Martha imaged the dragons on the other side of the wall had no idea who was coming their way.

"They're listening to us," Martha was succinct. There was no point in not telling him, and if they cut the line now, he'd still be able to trace her. The speakers hummed, still connected.

"Okay," Jack said. "Who's 'they'?"

"UNIT. Things have gone a little… awry."

Jack snorted and struggled into his flight coat. "What can I do for you? Where are you?"

Martha told him what had been going on, where was she being held. She gave him directions, not only how to find her, but also what to do upon his arrival. Speak to someone in charge. Be intimidating. Don't let them put you in a room alone_. You're not the object of the investigation, and you're surely not the mole. Neither am I_, she'd said. _They want someone who they think I might know, even if I don't know I know them._

Jack hated UNIT in that moment. They were good people in general, but someone was pulling strings that weren't meant to be pulled, and they were going to have some serious accusations facing their way soon. Jack already knew what he had to do.

"Just look like you know what you're doing. The guards don't know what they're guarding."

"I always know what I'm doing, sweetheart."

"Just hurry, Jack."

"Ten minutes, nightingale."

* * *

Jack jumped out of the SUV as soon as he'd passed through the guarded gateway. Not even glancing at the armed soldiers on either side of his path, he slammed open the door, striding down the corridors with purpose. No one stepped in his way, though several backed down. In any other circumstance it might've been a little gratifying to see people respond to him this way, watching those who had done him wrong recoil from the oncoming rebuttal. In this instance, though, he didn't notice. Jack was too focused on finding Martha.

His instincts led him to a large, open room, its perimeter lined with people in headsets at computers, crunching numbers. The walls are dark and covered in screens. Information in binary scrolled madly before his eyes. Jack searches the room, his gaze landing on a man in full regalia with his back to him. "You!" Jack's voice boomed in the empty air, and the man he addressed turned around slowly, almost as if he could barely be bothered. "You want to tell me exactly what it is that's going on here? You've got a friend of mine detained without any validated cause or reason." Jack stalked closer towards the man, his chest pushed out and his heart hammering in his ears. Jack lowered his voice, but his eyes were still dangerous. "And that is not a good place to be standing when I'm in the room. Am I understood?"

The man looks at Jack coldly. "You know Dr. Jones?" In the corner of Jack's eyes, those slaves at their computers are all posed, ready to record his every word.

"Let me make something clear to you," Jack said, pacing around the uniformed man as he surveyed the room. "Doctor Martha Jones is an extraordinary woman. She's smart. She's resourceful. She's creative. She's the person I would trust if the world was ending – in fact, I did." He came to a standstill directly in front of the other man once again. "And even more than all of those things, Martha Jones is human, and has more humanity than almost everyone I've met. I guarantee you she's got more humanity in her than all the people in this room, myself included."

Silence followed Jack's words; anyone walking down the hallway might've assumed it was empty had they not looked in. The commanding officer turned his head slightly, looking over his shoulder. Behind him, a whole team set to work after receiving this invisible cue – wires were connected, switches were flipped, and dials were turned oh so carefully. Martha, inside her glass cell, had heard all of Jack's words and had been yelling ceaselessly for him, but the vinvocci glass only made deafening echoes around her. Then, without warning, the air went thick and the lights came on, hotter and brighter than they'd ever been. A recorded voice somewhere repeated questions and words in no order; _who is the Doctor? What was The Year That Wasn't? aliens – stars – weapons – TARDIS - Who is the Master? Where is the Utopia? _Martha had collapsed on the floor, the ringing in her head too much to take. She had no words at this point, and she felt like they were pouring out of her without making a sound.

On the other side of the wall, Jack pounded his fists into the glass. It was translucent, and he could see the shape of his friend prone on the floor, her hands and arms covering her head and face. The glass itself was teeming with information, and Jack didn't understand the flying mess of images and words until he caught sight of the TARDIS first, and then the Doctor, and then, in the sensation of déjà-vu, saw himself walking hand-in-hand with Martha in a park, Mickey on the edge of the image. They were streaming Martha's memories straight from her head into the computers' processors, with the vinvocci glass acting as a converter – taking her memories from the air around her, using her own emotional energy as the catalyst to charge the exchange. Then, like regular data, it was sent through cables as thick as Jack's fist into the myriad of stations, where the lifeless followers sifted through the information. That they seemed so inhumane to do this to another person made Jack's blood boil. He turned to the commander – the arrogant man in the uniform. Reaching discretely into his flight coat, Jack wrapped his fingers around his Webley. He'd been carrying it since the First World War. More modernized guns were tucked in at his sides in his shoulder holster, and in a pinch, he'd carried a thigh holster for one particularly large gun he was fond of, rescued from the wreck of a Sontaran lifepod. The Webley, however, had its own holster, kept hidden high on his right hip.

Raising the weapon slowly, Jack let out a menacing whisper. "You know she's not what you want, and you know she's not your link," his mind was reeling, putting the pieces together. Around him, guards snapped their weapons to attention, leveling them on Jack. The commander waved his hand dismissively at the room at large.

"Who's going to stop me?"

At his sides, assistants clearly under false pretences looked at each other nervously. Jack noticed their actions.

"You're investigating a mole, aren't you, UNIT?" Jack asked to the room in general. Those watching the situation nodded in agreement or stayed entirely frozen – the dichotomy split between those who held weapons and those who didn't. "Then maybe you should look a little higher, don't you think? Doctor Jones is Medical – that's a level fifteen clearance. But the information you're talking about; did you ever consider that most of that is levelled at twenty and higher?" There were solemn faces around the room. "And look how no one speaks up!" Jack roared, letting his gun sweep in an arc over the room. "So in this room," Jack said as he slowly approached, "there is only _one_ person with clearance that high." Jack continued to pace closer to the uniformed man, who hadn't moved a muscle. Beside him, the assistants were inching backwards, away from him and from Jack. "And who's the person demanding to know everything about Doctor Jones' alien activities?"

There were gasps from all corners of the room. At their positions, the soldiers wavered.

"And who's the person who's going to keep this information, pour over it?" Jack was only a few steps away from the commander now, and he raised his voice to booming. "And who," he roared, "has been stealing memories without account of what happens to them?"

Jack was met by silence.

He turned to face the three men who stood guard over Martha's glass cage. The gun was level and his eyes were cold when he spoke to them. "You're going to let her out," he said calmly, "or," swinging his whole body back around to face the man in uniform, who now had a few stray guns trained on him, "I'll gladly improvise some pest control."

He heard the motions behind him, but was unwilling to turn around fully and take his eyes off the commander. There was the tumble of locks shifting, and then, in a whoosh, the sound of gas leaving the chamber. He could hear Martha panting, as she struggled to sit upright – while the glass was translucent to Jack, it was opaque from the inside. Martha scrambled to her feet and Jack could see the pain etched on her face. She backed away madly as two men entered the cell, and Jack yelled for her benefit. "Martha! Martha!" Confusion was writ on her features. "I'm out here, you're fine." She let herself be supported as the trio made their way slowly out of the room. Clouds of pale gas drifted along the floor and puffed up as they came around the other side of the doorway. When Martha's dizzy eyes found Jack's familiar form in the middle of the room, she gave up the thoughts of caution and ran across the space. He held an arm away from his side and Martha tucked herself in like a child. He could feel her cold, shaky hands through the layers of his shirts and imaged angrily how long she'd been there before she was allowed to make that phone call. With her safe in his arms, Jack's anger roared through his veins like a beast. His voice was cold and quiet as he faced the commander, the blue of his eyes icy.

"Name one good reason why I shouldn't kill you here. C'mon, name something."

The commander responded only with silence, and Martha whispered into Jack's shoulder.

"Oh, she's a smart girl," Jack said proudly, loudly. He kept the gun trained on the commander, but addressed the assistant beside him. "Find your second-in-command. Put him in the room and see what the animal does under pressure. Tell your second that it's been authorized by Captain Harkness. There won't be any questions asked."

* * *

**A/N: **I didn't really want to end this here, but otherwise we'd be looking at a chapter that was well over six thousand words, and that's kind of big. I think I'll post these separately, too, so that if anyone wants quick access to my Jack/Martha chapters/postings they'll be in a big collection of one-shots. How does that sound? Also, I want to apologize for taking so long to post again. This collection of chapters was a hurdle in itself and it didn't come at a good time, so I basically had to write three chapters' worth of stuff and then organize it. Not a whole lot of fun. Anyway, this is done, and now I have to go back in time and finish the previous chapter. Look, Mom, I'm a time-traveller!

Have a lovely day, everyone. Please think about dropping a review or a comment, they really do brighten my days.


	2. Keep Going

**A/N: **Welcome to the second and final chapter of this particular arc. The chapters that follow will be like this – one- or two-chapter arcs that look at pockets in time of Jack and Martha's lives together. I don't mean that in a long-term married way, no no no. I mean that in a long-term best-friends who have gone through a whole lot together. Make sense? Any questions or confusions, feel free to drop me a PM or a review with that. Also, reviews and comments make me very happy. Very, very happy.

**Disclaimer: **Captain Harkness is not mine, nor is Doctor Martha Jones. They belong exclusively to the Doctor Who franchise, and I'm only playing with them for a moment. I am not making any profit off of this; this is a complete work of fiction for my own enjoyment. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Jack had bundled Martha into his leather bomber once they were in his SUV; she was shaking with cold and what Jack figured was a massive dose of shock. He had helped her into the passenger seat of the truck and the pair had made a speedy getaway, Jack peeling away from the curb with a violent sound and a lot of forgotten rubber on the pavement. He reached one hand across the console as he drove, and Martha held it with both of her own on her knees. The drive was short – neither said anything. There was too much to talk about, it seemed, and not at all the right words to use.

Martha let herself be helped out of the truck – by the point Jack had found her, she'd been held for 32 hours, and she knew better than to trust her strength at this point. Jack put her on her feet, and then slowly, arm in arm, the pair made their way to the hotel's entrance. Jack was a familiar sight here, and so just in flashing his badge and looking busy, they were quickly passed their room keys and made their way to the elevator.

* * *

Ianto had discretely arranged for Torchwood to always have a few rooms in this hotel on standby – Gwen had made the phone call just after Jack left, deciding in that instant it was better to be safe than be sorry. The hotel was just across the square from the Hub, offering a speedy arrival or departure, whichever was desired. It was the safe feeling of home when home wasn't safe.

When they'd made it into the room, and the first thing Martha did was stretch out flat on the bed. There was only the one – Jack was technically supposed to be in the adjacent room. He shrugged out of his pilot's coat and it landed with a soft thud in the seat of the easy chair. Thanking God for the Welsh and their tea, Jack filled the room's tiny kettle and put tea bags in two mugs – chamomile for Martha, black for him. When he passed her the hot mug a few moments later, she'd shaken her head, eyes closed. He knew she was very much awake, but just working hard on processing and compartmentalizing what had happened. He set both mugs down on the bedside table and then gently touched the outside of Martha's thigh with the back of his hand. She took the cue and slid sideways, making room for him. Jack sat down heavily beside her and waited for Martha to speak.

"I feel so exposed, Jack," she said eventually. Her voice was hoarse, and still with her eyes closed, she reached up and touched her throat, like the sound could be rubbed away. "That place was made of glass and all of my thoughts were on the outside."

He reached down, taking her hand in his own. "It's done. Sweetheart, it's over. You're here now, and first thing tomorrow we're going to figure out how to crash their digital storage records." Martha made a noise of protest, and her eyes flew open only to burn in the light. She closed them again quickly and turned her face away from Jack, into the pillow.

"The lights?" Jack whispered, gently letting his hand trail along Martha's arm. She nodded, still refusing to face him.

"I was in the dark for so long, and then they would blind me…"

"I know," Jack replied, leaning over to turn out the bedside lamps. The only source of light in the room now was the window, the gentle blue-white of the streetlights far below casting ghostly shadows along the walls.

Jack reached out in the dark, his hands searching for Martha's. Finding her, he held gently and pulled her upright. She let out an unhappy noise, but didn't otherwise protest. Carefully, he placed the still-warm mug of tea in her hands. "You've got to have some, sweetie. You're dehydrated, and it'll only get worse from here. This'll help you sleep, too."

Martha leaned in to the sound of his voice, her head coming to rest on his shoulder. She nodded once, and then, like she had to steel herself, took a moment before taking a sip. It was hotter inside of her than it felt in her hands, and the warmth felt like fireworks in her empty belly. After the first wave of sensations had passed, Martha drank with gusto, and Jack was glad he only gave her a small mug, lest she make herself sick.

When she was finished, she held the still-warm mug to her chest. The shivers that had been at bay for so long came out now, and it was all she could do to keep her teeth from chattering.

"Bed, yeah?" he whispered. Martha nodded and made to stand up, but seemed to lose all of her energy halfway through the movement. In the gloom, she tentatively opened her eyes, and hoped that they asked the question she was too shy to voice.

Jack had shifted and started to stand, intent on giving her a moment of privacy, but when he heard the bedsprings creak, he turned to see what had happened. In the darkness he could see the outline of her eyes; the streetlights reflected in the beginnings of tears. He kneeled before her at the side of the bed, his torso against her legs. Ever so gently, Jack reached out and touched Martha's face, the back of his knuckles tracing from hairline to eyebrow, down the slope of her cheek to the corner of her mouth. Finally, his thumb ended on her chin, mimicking the gesture of the very first time they'd met.

Words went between the pair like shared breaths, and with only a moment's hesitation – eased when Martha nodded in the dark – Jack let his hands fall to her chest and the long line of tiny buttons that glittered in the dim light. One by one they came free, but Jack kept his eyes on Martha's. This wasn't sexual, no; it was one friend helping another when the physical body failed. Jack knew the helpless feeling that struck him like a ton of bricks every time he woke up from a death, and he wasn't going to let Martha feel that by herself. Soon enough the blouse was discarded and the tank top underneath was carefully pulled over her head. Jack placed his hands on her hips in a question and Martha accepted, leaning back on her hands and lifting her hips just the slightest off of the mattress. With a practiced twist and flick that Martha didn't want to think about, Jack had opened the button and fly of her cargo pants, and together, the material was pushed down to her ankles, until progress was blocked by her boots. Moving quickly because he knew she was getting cold, Jack tugged at the laces until the zipper was exposed and then, in two quick tugs, the boots were off and the pants fell to the floor, Martha's frame too small for her feet to touch the ground. When she was down to just her knickers, Jack leaned back on his haunches. Martha met his eyes and even in the dim he could imagine the blush in her cheeks. He gave her a wink and a saucy smile, trying to distract her.

"The lengths you go to, Doctor Jones, to get me where you want me." His words were teasing but his tone was gentle, and Martha knew he was only trying to make her feel better.

Rising to his feet, Jack leaned around her and pulled back on the covers. She took the hint and climbed in, dark skin contrasting with the white linens in a way that made Jack's heart race. Taking a moment to bring himself back together, he turned away from Martha, quickly shedding his own clothes. When he was down to just his shorts and undershirt, Martha let out a soft "hey."

He turned to her quickly, not sure if she'd tried to say something else and he had misheard. All she did, however, was stick her hands out from under the covers and make grabby hands for his undershirt. He let her peel it off of him, chuckling the whole time. "The habits of a nightingale," he muttered as she pulled the shirt over her own head and then sat up just in the slightest. Hands reaching behind her back, Jack put two and two together quickly enough to avoid bra-in-the-face, a symptom that often strikes men unawares.

Martha, meanwhile, had snuggled back into the covers, too tired to really care about Jack's surprise. Under other circumstances she would've relished having the one-up on him, especially on something like that, but her body just wasn't cooperating and that alone was enough to think about.

Jack climbed in on the other side of the bed and pulled Martha into the curve of his body. Her shivers shook them both but subsided quickly in the growing warmth under the duvet. Martha sleepily reached around to take hold of his hand, knowing, exhausted as she was, that he would never invade her personal space by letting hands wander anywhere than where she put them. She linked their fingers together, Jack's arm heavy and warm across her side, solid just in front of her belly. Behind her, his chest rose to just barely touch hers when he inhaled; not much, but enough for her to feel safely encased. Within moments, Martha had drifted more in the direction of sleep than wakefulness.

Jack, however, was lying awake behind her, eyes looking out over her form to the wide picture window. The image of the city was distorted in the light rain, all the greys and blacks inking together, the lights standing out like tiny beacons, like tiny stars.

* * *

There was rain beating softly against the windows of the hotel room – the city's skyline was lost in the fog, lights drifting through the mist like they were apologizing for interrupting something a little more important.

The room is dark in that warm way, chocolate and orange hues where light made it into the room, the blues and silvers contained to the window sill and the shadows there. Outside, there's a moment of stillness before a flash and a mighty rumble – the quiet drizzle has turned into thunder, and the lightning illuminates two still figures in the king-sized bed. Another flash fills the room, and Martha opens her eyes, fighting the last sensations of a bad dream. Her partner, only dozing, knows she's awake, and reached out to trace his fingers along the inside of her wrist. He whispered nothings into her hair but she'd already sat up, hugging her knees to her chest.

None of this surprised Jack. When she'd whispered shyly if he would stay with her that night, there'd been no hesitation in his agreement. They had learned the hard way that monsters were real; they lived under beds and in closed closets and sometimes, out on the streets in the dead-ends of dark alleys. They knew the hard way that sometimes, falling asleep took more courage than it did to wake up in the morning.

In the dark now, Martha was trying her best to shake off the heavy feeling that bad dreams left behind. Jack sat up behind her and wrapped her in his arms, the tips of his fingers and the slow rise and fall of his chest asking her to relax in the way warm bodies do. He was here to be her security tonight, he knew. Tonight, he was fighting the monsters in Martha's memories.

She turned her head, tucking her nose under Jack's chin. He turned, placed a soft kiss on her forehead, and then leaned his weight back into the headboard, Martha on his chest. She shivered as the lightning lit the room once more, and the rumble of thunder shook her in her very bones. Jack only held her closer. It wasn't that she feared she'd be taken again – nothing of the sort – she had been afraid for differently reasons. Not being able to move, not having that control over her body… Martha was still uncomfortable in her own skin, and the electricity buzzing everywhere in the air had the hair on her arms and the back of her neck standing on end. She just wanted to sleep, really, but she couldn't trust her own body.

"Still with me?" there was a whisper just above her ear, and she felt Jack's breath whoosh across her neck. She nodded faintly and reached her hand for one of Jack's, twining their fingers together.

"I just can't sleep, Jack." Her own voice was steadier than she'd anticipated, even though it was just a whisper. He glanced over the top of Martha's head; the bright yellow number on the bedside alarm read 4:13 in the morning. They'd only been in bed an hour or so.

"It'll be like that for a while, nightingale," Jack said softly. Martha sighed into his neck, and he gently rubbed his palm over her shoulders. Absentmindedly, Martha scratched and picked at her arms, dragging the nails hard enough to leave raised marks in their wake. Gently, Jack caught her hands mid-stroke, and folded his much larger ones over hers, holding them in place. "What are you doing?" he whispered.

Martha shrugged halfheartedly and looked at her hands like they were traitors. Jack didn't accept her silence, however, and moved to hold both of her wrists in one hand in her lap, his free hand reaching up to cup the back of Martha's head as she tried to look away from him.

"I don't want to be in my own skin," she whispered back, voice thick with tears. Eventually, she turned to face him, moisture caught in her long eyelashes, flashing like diamonds in the diffused light.

Martha turned sideways into Jack's embrace, both of her legs over one of his. He held her close, those traitorous hands stilled between their chests. "It doesn't go, nightingale," Jack said softly. "It's like a canyon that fades to a crack in the sidewalk. It takes years, sometimes, and it never goes away. But you learn. You heal." He leaned down, placed a kiss in her hair. "And friends help you carry those bricks. We'll put you back together, sweetheart. You're not alone." Jack could feel her hot tears falling onto his chest, Martha's head bowed. She wasn't making a sound, but they continued, relentless.

"Hey, hey," Jack whispered, rocking Martha gently back and forth in his embrace. "Shh, sweetie. I've got you. You're okay," he petted her hair, rubbed her back, kissed her temple. It was like she was crying and didn't even realize it. She let out a giant sigh, her shoulders expanding and then falling back in, and Jack continued to whisper nothings into her hair. "I've got you," he repeated, over and over and over. He wasn't sure whose benefit he was saying it for.

* * *

Eventually, the tears stopped; mostly, Jack assumed, because her body was just too tired to keep making them. She'd fallen into another restless sleep, and Jack just kept his arms tight around her, whispering all the while. Daylight should've been making its way into the room but the thunder and lightning raged on.

Jack wondered if someone, somewhere, was trying to make a point.

* * *

When Martha woke up the second time, her head was on Jack's chest, the steady _ba-thump _under her ear almost as soothing as his hand, tracing circles and ancient words into her skin. Rather than saying them, Jack had taken to spelling them out, words like _brave _and _beautiful_ and _nightingale_, just because. His eyes were heavy but his mind felt lighter – every additional moment that Martha was able to rest peacefully was another moment saved, another moment savoured.

She blinked blearily a few times before fully understanding where her body was. One of her legs wrapped over one of Jack's, her toes hiding under the warmth of his calf. One arm under her head and then passing under the pillows until she realized it was Jack's thick, silky hair between her fingers. Martha absentmindedly hoped she hadn't pulled. The other hand was on Jack's chest, just beside her face, rising and falling in time with his breaths. Deciding to return the favour, Martha traced symbols into his skin, her favourite lines from poems about summertime and oceans, with _thank you_ and _I love you_ written directly overtop. Eventually, Jack caught her roaming hand with his own free one and spoke, his voice morning-gruff.

"You're supposed to be sleeping."

"So are you," Martha parried.

Jack placed Martha's free hand flat on his chest, just above his heart. She could feel the reverberation through his whole torso - that wild, healthy heart beating like it always had. "I'm glad you're safe," he said softly. "I'm glad you're with me."

Martha smiled that pretty, pretty smile Jack loved so much. It went right into her eyes, like love really could be expressed on someone's face.

She looked away from his eyes for just a moment to lean down and kiss his chest, just beside her hand. "I'm going to have a shower," and before Jack could protest, she added, "I feel miles better now than I did. Really. And then we can even order room service, okay?"

He decided that he might as well let her have her way. While she'd been sleeping he'd been carefully looking at what of her he could see – there were a few bruises coming through, only two or three that looked serious. He hadn't been able to see any cuts or scratches, and she hadn't been moving the night before like there was anything wrong with her bones. Sighing grandly with exaggeration, Jack agreed, going to lengths to make it look begrudging.

"Only if we put it on the UNIT credit card."

Martha slinked out of the bed, sheets dragging onto the floor as she stepped away. Jack tried not to think about how she looked wearing only his undershirt. It has slipped off of one shoulder, and the hem of it falls to only barely brush the tops of her thighs. The shirt was old and worn – it's certainly seen better days – and it's translucent in the rainy light. Jack swallowed heavily. In contrast, Martha is solid and lovely and dark and that old shirt really doesn't leave anything to Jack's imagination. _Like you need an imagination when you're looking at a beauty like her,_ he thinks to himself. _Don't be a dog, man_ follows quickly afterward, and he climbed out of the bed, stretching greatly.

The bathroom door swooshed shut and he heard the pipes rattle as the water started. Jack, for want of being idle, collected his weapons. They'd been discarded hours earlier on the coffee table, just beside picture window. Jack had a feeling that they wouldn't be leaving anytime soon, and thought it best that those things be stored properly. Their holsters he left in place, and he made a mental note to replace Martha's stolen gun as he made his way to the closet safe.

He flicked on the light with his elbow and set to work, spinning the rolling tumbler lock without much of a plan, but enough of a habit that he cracked it easily enough. Jack double-checked all the safeties and then, trying to etch the lock's combination into his head, he fiddled with it until he was certain he'd be able to open once again, especially if they were in a hurry. He had almost finished then the thunder outside roared and rolled ominously, lightning filled the sky, and he was left in darkness.

Jack blinked in the dark, barely putting the pieces together before Martha started screaming – in the windowless bathroom, she'd just be confronted with the stuff of her own nightmares. She was blind and alone and had absolutely _no control_.

Jack turned on the spot and shoulder down, slammed into the door. The air is thick with steam and the dark is oppressive – he couldn't see anything. "Martha!" He yanked the shower's curtain, and the material shreds and snaps under his hands. His eyes can barely find her shape – in a full-blown panic, Martha had fallen in on herself, collapsing to the floor of the shower, arms and hands holding her body together.

"It's me," Jack's voice is insistent as he reaches for her, and once skin meets skin she's not crying anymore but rather clinging to him like a lifeline. The water is still pouring hot and he's just as wet as she is when he wraps his arms around her and bodily pulls her out into the main room, his feet scrabbling for traction and her eyes firmly closed. It's still dim but this room, with the wide window, doesn't have the same kind of oppressive dark.

They're back on the bed in a moment, and the whole thing seemed to be over as soon as it had started. They were both dripping, the water clinging to Martha's skin and streaming out of Jack's hair in fine, thin rivulets. He pulled the comforter up around them, and they were encased not unlike earlier that morning.

The heat clung to their skins, and Martha tucked herself further into Jack's embrace. Her nose is under his chin, and they are pressed together, chest to chest. Jack breathes a mantra for the both of them; "It's okay. I've got you. We're safe." Rocking them softly, the sway of the words with the patter of the rain and they're both almost trance-like when Martha finally looked up at him.

There's a hint of a smile in her face when she speaks. "Jack," she whispered, "I'm starkers." He can hear in her tone so many other things, but it doesn't even seem to matter now.

He sighed and rolled his eyes at her, one hand still tracing patterns on her back. "You were in the shower," he reminded her playfully; this isn't really a matter of boundaries, though on the outside it may seem to be. They'd been in and out of each other's lives for going on six years, not counting the _year that wasn't_. Maybe they should count it, Jack thought idly.

So, no, Martha's statement doesn't have much to do with decency and boundaries. There are broader implications, _maybe_, but since neither of them have better-halves it doesn't seem to matter. Jack had thought about this sort of thing before, in the moments when he mind wandered. Help came in many forms, and nothing reminded you that you were alive like the press of someone else's skin against yours.

"I'm sorry for that," she whispered, interrupting his thoughts.

Jack looked at her very seriously then, cupping one hand against her cheek so she would look him in the eyes. "Martha," he said, in a tone that left no room for argument, "never apologize for needing me, okay?" He pressed a kiss into her forehead, and Martha pulled herself into him, one hand on his chest. She nodded, but he repeated himself anyway. "You are too important, you understand? This is something you never need to apologize for. I don't need it." The words are solid and the meaning is writ in love. That's what they have. The _year_; the Doctor; the end of the Universe. And now they have a room full of light and dark – just one more thing they went through together.

"You're gonna be fine," Jack whispered. She nodded again, this time pressing a series of small kisses onto his chest. They've dried off, for the most part, and so Jack knows the warm, wet drops he feels are certainly tears. "You know," he says to her softly, "I met Churchill once."

There was a smile in Martha's voice when she answered him. "What's he got to do with anything?"

"Just something he said once," Jack said. "And it suits us. It always has. And it's how I know that you're gonna be okay. That we're always gonna be alright."

Martha rested her head against his chest, waiting for his answer. Her arms are wrapped around his body and his own flutter like birds over her skin. "'When you're going through hell,' he said, 'keep going.'"


	3. Gold Guns Girls

**A/N: **Welcome, folks! This one takes place approximately six months before the two-parter When You're Going Through Hell, Keep Going. Also, mind the rating. If you're not 18+, it's time to _git along little doggies._ Further notes at the end.

**Disclaimer 1: **I do not own any part of Torchwood or Doctor Who. This is a complete work of fiction for my own personal enjoyment. No copyright infringement intended.

**Disclaimer 2: ** This chapter is individually rated M. If you do not wish to read sexually explicit material, then this is not for you.

**Description: **Jack and Martha agree to make a movie sometime in the near future. In the meantime, they play with guns.

* * *

They're back on Earth after the Year That Wasn't, and things have, for the most part, returned to normal. For Torchwood, that means running about like fools, secretly chasing loose aliens and, with a little bit of excessive grandiose, saving the world from its ultimate peril.

Sometimes, they need help. It's a big job, after all, and it's also a very large world. Jack is, more often than not, properly pissed off that he can't use his vortex manipulator anymore. He didn't see meeting himself to be quite the same kind of problem that the Doctor did, but still, he understands it.

It's one of these times where the challenge is a little too great for a five-man team that Jack calls on a friend, and she's more than willing to help. They'd had the occasional run-in, but their rendezvous were always short-lived, and generally had more to do with _it's so good to see you! _And _hey, can I borrow that gun for a tick?_ In this instance, however, what the Torchwood team really needs is a fresh face to set up some new lines of communication with a black market group who think they're so tough dealing in aliens. They're not turning out to be nice folks, and Jack knows that if there's one person in the world he can trust with this, it's Doctor Martha Jones.

His team, however, is a little less than welcoming, and on her first day, it seemed that Martha was always drawing the short stick. With Jack's company and satisfying work, it didn't bother her that much. But by the end of the third week… things had seriously changed.

* * *

A surgeon and a playboy, Martha's fiancé had had cold feet before he'd even proposed, and with Martha gone for _just a few days, love, _to _looks like next week, _to _I'm sorry, but I'll be home for Christmas, _he decides then and there to leave domesticity behind. He called her the following morning, and left a stuttering message about taking some time, going back to his roots, and _hey, maybe I'll see you around. _

More than anything else, it just left Martha angry. She'd listened to the message on the morning of her most important play, and that meant she had to shove it and her emotions to the back of her mind so she could get the job done and not have anyone invading her privacy. She'd tell Jack, of course, but just not_ now_, and went through the day with that mantra rolling over and over in her head.

The day goes well and everything goes to plan – well, mostly to plan, except that the team gets caught up and Martha and Jack have to bail them out in a series of risky moves that almost cost them the entire operation. However, when the dust settled, it was the hot-shots who claimed to have done all the work. Jack is used to their boasting and petty competition; Martha doesn't like not giving credit where it's due. To top off her day, Jack called after her as she was about to leave the Hub, everyone else already moving on to Torchwood-related paperwork. He'd requested that, since she was free, she move on to the next step of the plan immediately – "_Just ask Tosh for the details."_

The details were to go to a row of strip clubs and find the blonde girl named Luna with mismatched irises. As she set out, too frustrated to complain and not willing to start a fight with Jack, Martha wondered to herself why they _always_ had to be blonde.

* * *

Once she had made it back to the Hub two hours later, Martha had reached the end of her mental grace period. She was angry at her loss and for falling for the surgeon anyway, pissed at the team that didn't appreciate her, and beyond frustrated that her friend, her _best friend_, possibly, had been too sidetracked to notice anything off. Behind all of these emotions, too, was that itchy, terrible voice in her head that mocked, _and you didn't even see it coming_.

While she was angrily tossing things in and out of her locker, Jack had made his way down into the sub-basement, leaning on the doorframe. Eventually, Martha turned around to notice him, obstructing her path with a cocky smile on his face and innuendo on his lips. In that moment, she almost wanted to slap him, and Jack's face fell to more neutral lines when he saw the dark anger flash behind her eyes.

His tone is solid but without bias. "What happened?"

Martha let out a cynical laugh and she leaned back against the locker doors, looking at Jack in a way that makes him uncomfortable. "You haven't the faintest, Jacky boy." She paused and tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them away furiously, and when Jack took a step forward, her voice was hard. "Don't you touch me," she said. "I'm so beyond that right now."

Jack opened his mouth to speak but she cut him off with a pointed finger. "Oh, no. You don't get to talk right now. Your _team_ dragged me through the mud today Jack, and they put the whole situation – all of us_ – _in danger. And you didn't say a word! They're petty and they fight and you call that a _team_?" Jack crossed his arms across his chest, waiting for what else Martha was holding on to.

She kept yelling; facts and accusations came out of her mouth equally, and when she ran out of steam, her voice got lower but hard once again. "He left me, Jack."

Jack's expression didn't change, but he took in a deep breath and let in out in a great rush. He tilted his head forward in a question, asking, in a way, _may I sit?_

Martha nodded as she kept talking, still leaning against the lockers. "He called late last night, and I got the message this morning. Just a, you know, _hey, changed my mind, I don't want to marry you._ And that was it. We've been together for four years and then he's just… done."

There were a few moments of silence while Martha looked blankly at the floor and Jack looked at her. Then, decision made, he held out a hand for her. As she looked at him, he said, "I'm sorry; I deserved that; and I can fix this."

Martha reached out slowly, taking his hand in hers. She's still unhappy, but really, it's _Jack_, so what else is she going to do? They've certainly been through worse than this, even if this the very first time she'd ever been this angry with him.

They went down another flight of stairs, and Martha vaguely wondered just how far underground they were then they came up to the firing range. She waited in the doorway as Jack set out one of almost every weapon they had in stock – noticeably absent were the rocket launchers – and he then laid out gloves, eyewear, and ear protection. He puts on his own pair of glasses and mufflers before turning to the woman just to his left. She stepped forward, taking the proffered gear, and hears through the intercom, "Use everything you're comfortable with first."

"And the others?" Martha growled at him as she lined up her stance. "You'll teach me if I don't bite?"

Jack just gives her a saucy grin. "I'd like it better if you did."

And so, shoulders squared and eyes blazing, Martha does as she's been told, emptying the magazines without really aiming anyway in particular on the paper dummy. On the next two she slowed down, and then, on the fourth, she's taking her time, aiming – and hitting – exactly on target. It doesn't escape Jack's attention that she didn't miss a single shot once she'd toned down and focused.

Then, moving on to the sixth gun; it was a hulking piece made from bits and bobs that Owen and Suzie put together, meant to be fired from the hip. Martha hefted the bulky weapon up in her arms; the earlier exercises had left her heart racing and her muscles jittery, and she felt powerful holding something so wieldy in her hands. Jack stepped up close behind her, wrapping his whole body around her. It doesn't feel suffocating, but Martha's suddenly aware of their bodies.

Jack knows that she's handled just as many weapons as he has, so he keeps his instructions to a minimum. Guiding her hands to the best positions, he reminded her how to breathe through the rapid-fire concussions. Then, just before she fires, he traced one hand down her side, coming to rest on her hip and bring her solidly back against his body. Martha's vision wavers but she doesn't let her body betray her. They count down from three together, and then she squeezed the trigger. The force of the recoil had her staggering back, but Jack, with his feet firmly planted, caught her, wrapping an arm around her waist as she continued to shoot until all fourteen rounds have been discharged.

As the dust settled, Martha let her breath out in a whoosh, and Jack held back a chuckle at her expense. First taking the gun from her, and then removing his own protective gear, he turned back to her with eyes that saw right through her.

Martha had gone from angry to frustrated, to now a totally different kind of wound up, and Jack was looking at her like she was an instrument only he knew how to play.

As he walked back towards her, she threw off her own goggles and mufflers. As he got closer and closer into her personal space, echoes of sensations bounced around her nerves: his hand pulling her back into his body, the recoil pushing them together. Her head was swimming and all Jack did was walk closer, until Martha was nearly panting and he was only a few inches away.

"How angry were you when you got back, one to ten?"

Martha worked to control her breathing and she swallowed heavily before she answered. "Eight. Maybe nine."

"And now?"

Martha paused before responding. "Four and a half."

Jack smirked, and Martha rolled her eyes dramatically, making to give his shoulder a shove. Jack caught her hand, however, and Martha's expression changed dramatically to wide eyes as she watched him.

He pushed her sleeve down her arm till it was bunched around her elbow, and he brought her hand up near to his face, letting his breath ghost over the sensitive inside of her wrist. Martha shivered. He placed a kiss on the skin there, eyes watching Martha carefully. Her eyelashes fluttered, but she kept her gaze on him.

Jack reached out and pulled her roughly against him, hips momentarily rocking together. Martha lets out a gasp and looks at Jack like she wants to figure him out. There's a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, and Jack leans down, tasting a kiss from her lips that lasts less than second. "Pity," he mumbled against her neck. "I always aim for a ten."

Martha gets the joke and lets out a bark of a laugh before she grabs his braces and pulls him even tighter against her body.

"Captain Jack Harkness," she drawls casually, and if Jack's honest with himself, he's wanted to hear his name out of her mouth like that a hundred times, though maybe under different circumstances. "Then don't you think I deserve the best?"

She's cheeky and Jack loves it, it gets his blood running. "Oh, Doctor Jones," and he leaned in, whispering with his lips along her skin. "That's a promise, if you'd like." He makes his way to her ear, tracing the shell of it with his tongue and then his teeth. She breathed deep and leans against him. They're still back to front, and Jack uses his size to his advantage, bodily pushing against her until they reach a wall and he pins her to it. He pulls her out of her jacket, but his hips have her lower half held in place – Martha pushed her ass back against him just to make it clear that they are, in fact, doing this. His hands run up her bare arms and they settle hugely against her slim shoulders. He flips her over quickly, and Martha is fierce when she kisses him, making up for the way he'd manhandled her to where they are now.

Jack rocked his hips against her, one thigh coming to rest between her open ones. He reached down, grabbing her under her knees and lifting her up along the wall until he's satisfied with the height she's at. The pressure of where his hip holds her in place at the apex of her thighs is right in all the wrong ways, and it's not helping her at all. Jack is working miracles against her neck, and her eyelids fall as she raked her fingers though his hair and then supports herself against his shoulders – her head lolling forward under his ministrations.

He reached up to squeeze her breasts through her shirt and that was when Martha caught his hands, holding them in place. "Don't you have security cameras, Jack? I don't fancy Owen wanking off to this," she got out through gritted teeth.

Jack laughed against her skin and the sensation echoes throughout her body. "We do, and hell, I don't mind," he said, nipping at her collarbones.

Martha practically growled under him and Jack felt his cock twitch, so he jostled her against his hip just to get a reaction. It's a frustrated groan and it was music to his ears. "We'll make a movie later, Jack," she said, still holding his hands on her chest.

Jack froze on the spot, and Martha was already heady with sex, groaning at the absence of pressure. "Is that a promise?" his tone was saucy and Martha loved it.

"Fuck, yes," she breathed. "If you finish what it is that you've started." She makes a point by rocking her hips sharply against his – she could feel his bulk under her thigh and wanted nothing more than to complete this act.

Jack turned her slightly sideways on his hip and then wraps one arm under her bottom. Before pulling away from the wall he looked at her seriously. "Hold tight," he said, before hefting her up and carrying her much like an oversized child.

Martha awkwardly wrapped her legs around his waist as he quickly carried them up the staircase, laughing all the way, until they were on the main level of the Hub. Martha could've walked, but she figured that Jack got off on being the hero, and that was exactly what they were here for this evening, sowhy not indulge him?

When Jack stopped, he was standing in his office, and Martha was confused. He kissed her neck with an open mouth and then set her down, and she looked around mildly before her gaze went back to Jack. "This really isn't any better, thanks."

Jack laughed as he bent over, pulling at the hatch in the floor. Suddenly to Martha's eyes a porthole and a ladder were exposed, and in the dim light of the chamber, she could also spy the corner of a bed.

"Really, Jack? You live at work?" Her voice was incredulous.

"Always prepared," he said, trademark grin in place. "Lady's first."

Martha gave a false curtsey with her own smirk, and then turned quickly to drop herself down the ladder. Jack swatted her ass as she turned, mostly just because he could. Once he heard her boots made contact with the concrete, he too jumped down the porthole, avoiding the ladder entirely.

Martha stepped up to him in the dark, and the kiss was just as intense as it had been in the firing range. He picked her up and Martha let out a little shriek as he tossed her back onto the bed, her _oomph_ amid the pillows and bedclothes turning into a burst of laughter.

Jack stalked up to the bed with eyes like a predatory animal; it sent shivers down Martha's spine and made her feel more desirable than she ever had. He leaned over her on the bed, whispering in her ear. "Lights?" he asked. Martha glanced around the room, around his bulk in the dark. She realized that once they closed the hatch they'd be in complete darkness, save for a few blinking lights on the odd piece of tech. She nodded as he pulled her to the edge of the bed and kissed the exposed skin of her cleavage.

"Please," she mumbled. "I want to see you."

Jack smiled against her skin, giving her a quick nip before leaving her bereft to find the light switches on the other side of the room. Martha blinked rapidly when they flickered on, and took in the room.

The bed was wide and long and took up most of this side of the chamber. There was a small couch, a low table, and what looked like a dressing table and a matching writing desk. There was a doorway behind Jack, and over his shoulder she caught the edge of what was probably a bookshelf and then a hallway that she assumed led to an en suite. That was all she time to take in before Jack filled her vision again. The soft light cast heavy shadows and it did little to hide Jack's arousal. She drank in the sight of him just as he did her, stepping back towards the bed slowly.

He toed out of his boots and then came forward, catching Martha by the knees and hauling her forward, all the way to the edge of the bed. He knelt before her and Martha felt her heart rocket around inside her chest. Things had slowed down considerably in the few minutes it had taken for them to get here, and Martha wouldn't have had it any other way as she looked in Jack's eyes.

Her voice was quiet and she posed him a question that didn't really surprise him. "Are we going to do this again?" she whispered.

Jack took one of her hands and pulled her fingers until her palm was open to him. He placed a soft kiss there and then folded her fingers back over it, like it was a physical thing that could be treasured. He held her hand closed in both of his and looked at her seriously. "Martha Jones, the woman who walked the earth." His tone is reverent. "Whenever you want."

Martha held her lips between her teeth and breathed deeply at his response. Then, she nodded and smiled, eyes warm on Jack's. She leaned down to him and held his face with her free hand, deepening their kiss. When she finally pulled back, their lips were still touching, the kiss lingering. "I missed you, Jack. So much."

He smiled against her lips and cupped the back of her head as he kissed her again. "I know," he said, voice momentarily very tight. "I know."

They paused again, and this time Jack lets his fingers play along the hem of her shirt. Martha's breath hitched and he watched her breasts bounce with the movement, letting her feel the weight of his eyes. She looked at him slyly and held his hands in hers, blatantly suggesting that he simply wasn't moving things fast enough for her. "Martha Jones, so bossy," he teased as he slid his hands under her shirt to play across her belly and ribs. She tried to keep the sensations off of her face. "I wonder how far that goes?" Jack asked at large.

Martha just smiled cheekily as she reached for his braces, first pushing them off of his shoulders and then setting in to work on his buttons. Jack beats her to it, and when it's half-undone he just yanks it and his undershirt over his head before he reached for her tank and pulled it off of her. It leaves her hair going wild in all directions, and he thinks of what it will look like spread out against his pillow.

He took in the sight of her in this light – more than he's ever seen, but almost prudent in comparison to what's coming. His eyes catch on the butterflies on her arm and the palm tree on her hip – his fingers skim over it and he wonders if she has any other inky secrets. He pushed the thought aside as he ran his hands across her thighs and down her calves, legs that Martha can't wait to wrap around him once again. Jack made quick work of her boots and then moves his hands back up to get her out of her cargos. Jack consciously meant to leave her knickers in place, but Martha hooks her thumbs into the waistband and shoves them down in nearly the same movement. Being as close to her as he is, kneeling on the floor beside the edge of the low bed, her scent fills his senses and he closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Martha can smell it, too, and she fought the urge to close her thighs.

Jack opens his eyes in time to see those thoughts flit across her features. He reminds himself that this kind of self-consciousness is something that plagues the women until about the 30th century, when the men in their lives finally straighten out and tell them they're beautiful without expecting favours in return. The taboo of their bodies frustrates him, so he gently coaxes her to open her thighs and kisses wetly up the length of one, whispering the whole way, "You are gorgeous."

With one hand on her hip and his breath ghosting over where she needs him the most, Martha sighed heavily and lets her nails drag along the nape of Jack's neck. He shivered and placed a kiss just over the bump of her pubic bone, watching as she thought about leaning backward and her belly fluttered under the sensations. His tongue comes out to gently lave at her folds, her taste warm and musky and a little bit sweet. Finally, he licked her from bottom to top, his tongue swirling across the little bud of nerves and Martha had just about given up, falling backward against the bed with a grateful groan. Her nails scratched at his scalp and he sucked her clit between his lips, feeling her thighs tremble under his hands. He leaned back but the smell of her still filled his senses and left him wanting and a little bit desperate.

Martha arched off the bed at the loss of contact, but she opened her eyes to find Jack crawling up the bed beside her. When they were almost face to face he bundled her up in his arms and used their weight cooperatively to shift them to the middle of the mattress. She ends up sprawled overtop of him, and Jack thinks there are worse things in the world.

Martha leaned up so she was properly straddling his waist; she could feel his braces tangled around her feet and the warm/cold of his belt buckle under her ass. Finding her balance, she leaned down again, this time kissing him the way she wants to, fast and a little bit frustrated and a whole lot _why didn't we do this sooner?_ Her nails pressed crescents into the skin of his chest and he loves it, reaching around her back to pull her roughly against his body. Deft fingers made for the clasp of her bra and it was gone in an instant, black silk tossed carelessly in whatever direction. Jack broke the kiss then to make his way down her neck, and then, low enough so that he thinks it won't show in a blouse, he sucks a wonderful mark into her skin. She growled at him, like he expected, and that makes tomorrow's sour look so worthwhile right now.

He caught her by surprise when he rolled them, taking his weight on his forearms but letting his pelvis settle heavily across her. The trousers were uncomfortably tight, and when Martha reached down a hand to stroke him through the layers he hissed and pressed her deeper into the mattress. She laughed and pushed back against his belly with her hands, giving herself enough space to work open the buckle, button, and zip. The tightness abates, but his body knows that this gets better yet. Bringing his attention back to her needs, Jack marvels at her bare chest for what he can't believe is finally the first time; they are perfect to him. Small chocolate-coloured nipples are pebbled and hard against the rest of her coffee-cream skin, and Jack thinks about never eating a sweet again if he can always come home and unwrap Martha. His fingers walked up her ribs and were extraordinarily gentle at first, barely even making contact with her skin. She watched him watching her, and when he raised his eyes to meet her gaze, Martha is smiling softly, shyly, but a real smile none the less. He wanted to kiss her in that moment, and so he did.

His hands settled more fully on her while they kiss, tongues playing and teeth nipping sharply at lips looking exactly for that. In his palms her breasts are comfortably heavy and they remind him of things that are real and worth waiting for. Martha breaks the kiss and takes control, her fingers in his hair, guiding his mouth down to what his hands protect. Jack smiled against her skin and his breath had her arching up to meet him – a swirl, a flick, and Martha cried out. He sucked her nipple gently between his teeth and pinches as his tongue leaves her at his mercy, she was writhing beneath him and he filed that away for another day, wondering just how far he can take her without touching anything else.

Now, however, is not that time, and Martha worked to control herself and pull Jack back up to her eye-level. She kissed him fiercely, holding his face in her hands and bucking her hips up against him in an impatient reminder. "Keep your promises, Captain," she mumbled into his neck, and he let out a sound that was stuck somewhere between groan and whimper.

He leaned back on his haunches and his previously undone trousers fell to his knees. Martha sat up with him, and he watched the way her breasts sway with her movements. She gave him a playful shove and he was suddenly on his back with an _oomph_ and a laugh and she's pulling his trousers and socks off of his legs. Martha was farther down the bed than he was, and the bedclothes have been completely forgotten, rumpled and mostly on the floor. She stretched like a cat and Jack was mesmerized by the way the light played on her lush hips. He was so distracted that when she traced her fingernails up his thighs, he had to swallow back undignified sounds. She watches him like a cat that got the cream, and when she starts to toy with the band of his shorts his eyes watch her with something dark and hungry underneath. Martha couldn't wait to find out what.

She traced the outline of his cock under the thin fabric, applying pressure and then totally leaving him bereft in favour of outlining his abs with light touches. It's torture and he loves it, sure, but after another eternity Jack grits out, "Martha, sweetheart, that's just not _fair_," in a voice that almost whined. He has sort of got a point, she can see, so she doesn't tease him anymore – at least, not like that. Instead, she hooked her fingers more fully under the elastic band, pulling it away from his body so that his cock can lie, hot and heavy, against his belly. Martha pulled the shorts all the way down off of his legs, and then, to his surprise, _nothing should surprise you about her anymore_, she positions herself between two strong, muscled thighs, head bowed to breathe over the wet trail her tongue left as she climbed up the length of one leg. Jack lets out a full-bodied groan and she rests one cheek against his thigh and looked up at him with big eyes and a warm smile. Jack reached blindly behind him for a pillow and stuff it gracelessly under his head, propping himself up to watch her. He thought idly about fairytales for a moment, and when someone says to the princess '_your wish is my command,' _but then he reminds himself that Martha is no princess who needs saving. She's the queen who rescued the world, but in that moment, Jack's realized that there's nothing at all that he won't do for her. She reached a hand up to him and he takes it in his own, hoping that everything he's feeling shows on his face, because when Martha finally lets her tongue trail over him and then gently sucks him into her mouth, he was just about beyond words.

Martha half-wondered, once upon a time, about ever having to impress Jack should they ever collapse into the sheets. Now that they're here, though, she was too content and everything felt much too natural for her to worry about putting on a show. Instead, she held him steady with one hand on the base of his shaft and let the point of her tongue swirl around the head, watching as his facial expressions change and the fingers twined with hers hold tightly when she took him in, slowly _slowly_, all the way until her nose brushes up against his belly and she works the muscles of her throat once, then twice, and then backs off, hollowing out her cheeks just so she can hear him groan again.

When she looked up again, his hands reached for her, pulling her up on top of him, and she was more than okay with that. They kissed again, this time a little more languidly, and Martha gently rolled her hips over him, riding the ridge of his erection even though he's not inside of her yet. It's done a little bit consciously – her natural juices have covered him, and so when she reaches down between them, she can settle her body over his without any pressure or too-tight friction.

The moment that joins them almost did Martha in, she'd been so wound up for so long. She felt full and complete and heavy with him inside of her, and this perfection is written on her face when he pulled her down so that they could breathe through it together. They started rocking slowly, Martha raising herself up on her knees, Jack's hands strong on her hips, pulling her back down over him. He whispered in her ear for her to sit up straight, all the way, and the way the angle changes inside of her makes Martha cry out, grinding herself down over Jack. He pulled her down close and holds her tight to him as he rolled them again, this time letting his weight settle between them as Martha gasped and whimpered against his neck. She hooked her ankles around the small of his back mostly out of reflex, her nails scoring down his back. Jack cursed and kissed her roughly once again. One of his hands reached down between them, and they both looked down their bodies to see where they're joined. Jack gets her with one perfectly placed thrust and now that he knew where it was, that one golden spot, he balanced himself and just hits it over and over and over again, until Martha felt like she's been stung out too thin, and when he let one finger circle lazily around her clit, it only takes two figure-eights and then she was falling apart in his arms, hips bucking up to meet his and her voice breathy as she lets out one long, low, "oh, _Jack._"

He helps her ride it out, feeling her thighs tremble and concentrating on his breathing as her internal muscles clench and flutter around him. He slowed his strokes until she's almost gotten her breathing back, and then he redoubled his efforts; he brings her a second time, chasing the waves of her first orgasm and then, when it feels like her body is exploding around him, he lets go. His thrusts lose their rhythm but Martha was too far gone to notice, and with arms shaking from holding his weight he slams into her one final time, buried to the hilt as his own body surrenders.

In the back of his mind – maybe the only part that's still working – he knows that he's much bigger than her and if he drops on the spot, that will be the end of perfect little Martha Jones, and so he somehow manages to shift his top half a few inches when he finally collapses, stars behind his closed eyes.

Seconds or hours later, he opens them again, Martha was tracing patterns on his back. He put a hand on the back of her neck and pulled her down for a kiss; it's open-mouthed but it's mostly just lips resting together, whispering words into its partner's mouth.

Jack said things like _perfect_ and _beautiful_ and _you are amazing_. Martha kissed him for each one. He finally rolled off and out of her, his soft cock slipping gently from her body. She still groaned and shifted with the loss. Her muscles, however, are still full of the physical memory, and she relished the feeling they give her. Jack gathered her up on his chest, and she played her fingers over the little angry marks her nails have left behind. A shiver passed between the both of them, and Martha reached down, grabbing the sheets and duvet from the foot of the bed. Jack helps her spread it over the two of them, but she's warm and pliant against him and Jack couldn't think of anything else he could want.

Her head was on his chest, comfortably heavy, with an ear and a palm over his heart, listening to it beat out that forever rhythm. It has been going like that for the better part of one hundred fifty years, and Martha couldn't think of any other sound she would turn to in dark times.

It turned out that there's a dial for the light on the bedside dresser – _why didn't they use that earlier? –_ and it makes falling asleep all the more convenient. It's almost as dim as it was when they came down here more than an hour ago, the only light left is the soft glow that comes from the bookshelf/hallway/bathroom that she hasn't explored yet. But that's okay. She's got time.

Martha whispered something to Jack just as they're both on the edge of sleep. "Jack," she mumbled against his chest. He rubs her back to tell her he's listening. "You know I love you, yeah?"

If that was anyone else on top of him, Jack might've jumped out of his skin. But it's Martha, and there's no other woman in this universe that he'd rather have beside him. Sleepy blue eyes looked back at her, but either her gaze is downcast or she's closed her eyes, Jack can't tell in this light. His voice is raspy with sleep. "I know, nightingale," he says quietly, and he placed a kiss in her wild hair. "You, too."

* * *

**A/N: **About Christmas in this one – let's say that the operation started about five weeks before the holiday season, so she was gone for quite a bit longer than expected. Also, Martha and her fiancé were living in London, and Torchwood Three is in Cardiff. And when they say their _I love yous_, I really think it's just that solid kind of thank-god-you're-in-my-life love. It certainly felt right for Martha to say it in that moment.

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